Toomey placed a detaining hand upon his arm as he turned from the table.
“Look here! Won’t let you go till you promise come make us a visit—stay month—stay year—stay rest o’ your life—la'sh string hanging' out for you. Pure air, Swizzerland of America, an’ greatest natural resources—”
The stranger detached himself gently.
“I appreciate your hospitality,” he replied courteously. “Who knows?” to Mrs. Toomey, “I might some day look in on you—I’ve never been out in that section of the country.”
With another bow he paid his own account and left the restaurant.
“Thoroughbred!” declared Toomey enthusiastically. “Old Dear, I made a hit with him.”
Mrs. Toomey was staring after the erect commanding figure.
She read again the name on the card she held in her fingers and murmured with an expression of speculative wonder:
“The spelling’s different but—Prentiss! and she looks enough like him to be his daughter.”
* * *
CHAPTER XVI
STRAWS
It was spring. The sagebrush had turned from gray to green and the delicate pink of the rock roses showed here and there on the hillsides. The crisp rattle of cottonwood leaves was heard when the wind stirred through the gulches, and along the water course the drooping plumes of the willows were pale green and tender. It was the season of hope, of energy revived and new ambitions—the months of rejuvenation, when the blood runs faster and the heart beats higher.
But, alas, the joyful finger of spring touched the citizens of Prouty lightly. Worn out and jaded with the strain of a hard winter and waiting for something to happen, they did not feel their pulses greatly accelerated by mere sunshine. It took more than a rock rose and a pussy willow to color the world for them. June might as well be January, if one is financially embarrassed.
The suspicion was becoming a private conviction that when Prouty acquired anything beyond a blacksmith shop and a general merchandise store it got more than it needed. Conceived and born in windy optimism, it had no stamina. The least observant could see that, like a fiddler crab’s, the progress of the town was backward. But these truths were admitted only in moments of drunken candor or deepest depression, for to hint that Prouty had no future was as treasonable as criticising the government in a crisis. So the citizens went on boasting with dogged cheerfulness and tried to unload their holdings on any chance stranger.
A trickle of water came through the ditch that had been scratched in the earth from the mountains to some three miles beyond Prouty. Nearly every head-gate the length of it had been the scene of a bloody battle where the ranchers fought each other with irrigating shovels for their rights. And, after all, it was seldom worth the gore and effort, for the trickle generally stopped altogether in August when they needed it. If the flow did not stop at the intake it broke out somewhere below and flooded somebody. If the sides did not give way because of the moisture loosening the soil, the rats and prairie dogs conspired to ruin Prouty by tunneling into the banks. And if by a miracle “the bone and sinew” of the community raised one cutting of alfalfa, the proceeds went to the Security State Bank, or Abram Pantin, to keep up their 12 per cent. interest.
When the route to the Coast was shortened by one of the state’s railroads and Prouty found itself on the cutoff, it was delirious with joy, but it regained its balance when the fast trains not only did not stop, but seemed to speed up instead of slackening; while the local which brought any prospective investor deposited him in a frame of mind which was such that it was seldom possible to remove his prejudice against the country.
These were the conditions one spring day when the buds that had not already burst were bursting and Mr. Teeters dashed into Prouty. “Dashed” is not too strong a word to describe his arrival, for the leaders of his four-horse team were running away and the wheelers were, at least, not lagging. It was obvious to those familiar with Mr. Teeters’ habits that he was en route to the station to meet incoming passengers. This was proclaimed by his conveyance and regalia. He wore a well-filled cartridge belt and six-shooter, while a horse hair watch chain draped across a buckskin waistcoat, ornate with dyed porcupine quills, gave an additional Western flavor to his costume. His beaded gauntlets reached to his elbow, and upon occasions like the present he wore moccasins. There was a black silk handkerchief around the neck of his red flannel shirt, and if the rattlesnake skin that encircled his Stetson did not bring a scream from the lady dudes when they caught sight of it, Teeters would feel keenly disappointed.
“I can wrangle dudes to a fare-ye-well and do good at it,” Teeters had declared to the Major. And it was no idle boast, apparently, for Teeters stood alone, supreme and unchallenged, the champion dude-wrangler of the country.
“It’s a kind of talent—a gift, you might say—like breakin’ horses or tamin’ wild animals,” he was wont to reply modestly when questioned by those who followed his example and failed lamentably. “You got to be kind and gentle with dudes, yet firm with them. Onct they git the upper hand of you they’s no livin’ with ’em.”
Five years had brought their changes to Teeters as well as to Prouty.
He was still faithful to Miss Maggie Taylor, but a subtle difference had come into his attitude towards her mother. He was less ingratiating in his manner, less impressed by the importance of her father, the distinguished undertaker; less interested in her recitals of her musical triumphs when she had played the pipe organ in Philadelphia. Her habit of singing hymns and humming which had annoyed him even in the days when he was merely tolerated, actually angered him.
Now, as the four horses attached to the old-fashioned stagecoach which had been resurrected from a junk-heap behind a blacksmith shop, repaired and shipped to the Scissor Outfit as being the last word in the picturesque discomfort for which dudes hankered, the onlookers observed with keen interest as the Dude Wrangler tore past the Prouty House, “There must be a bunch of millionaires coming in on the local.”
The horses kept on past the station, but by throwing his weight on one rein Teeters ran them over the flat in a circle until they were winded. Then he brought them dripping and exhausted to the platform, where he said civilly to a bystander, indicating a convenient pickhandle:
“If you’ll jest knock the ‘off’ leader down if he bats an eyelash when the train pulls in, I’ll be much obliged to you.”
As is frequently the way with millionaires, few of those who emerged from the day coach sandwiched in between a coal and freight car, looked their millions. It was evident that they had reserved their better clothing for occasions other than traveling, since to the critical eyes of the spectators they looked as though they were dressed for one of the local functions known as a “Hard Times Party.”
The present party of millionaire folk seemed to be led by a bewhiskered gentleman in plaid knickerbockers and puttees, who had travelled all the way from Canton, Ohio, in hobnailed shoes in order instantly to be ready for mountain climbing.
To a man they trained their cameras upon Teeters, who scowled, displayed his teeth slightly, and looked ferocious and desperate enough to scare a baby.
Then his expression changed to astonishment as his eyes fell upon a passenger that was one of three who, slow in collecting their luggage, were just descending. A second look convinced him, and he not only let out a bloodcurdling yell of welcome, but inadvertently slackened the lines that had been taut as fiddle strings over the backs of the horses. The leaders jumped over “the Innocent Bystander” before he had time to use his pickhandle, reared and fell on their backs, where they lay kicking the harness to pieces.
“You miser'ble horse-stealin’, petty larceny, cache-robbin’—” just in time Teeters remembered that there were ladies present and curtailed his greeting to Hughie Disston. “Why didn’t you let me know you was comin’?” he ended.
“Wanted to surprise you, Teeters,” said Disston, dropping the bags he carried.
“Yo s
hore done it!” replied Teeters emphatically, casting an eye at the writhing mass of horses. “It’ll take me an hour or more to patch that harness!”
“In that event,” said the guest from Canton, Ohio, with a relief that was unmistakable, “it were better, perhaps, that we should go to the hotel and wait for you.”
“It were,” replied Teeters. “It’s that big yella building' with the red trimmin’s.” He pointed toward the town with his fringed and beaded gauntlet. “I’ll be along directly, and if I kin, I’ll stop and git you.”
“Isn’t he a character!” exclaimed a lady in an Alpine hat, delightedly.
Teeters wrapped the lines around the brake and descended leisurely.
“Set on their heads, Old Timers”—to the volunteers who were endeavoring to disentangle the struggling horses—and shook hands with Disston.
“This is Mrs. Rathburn and Miss Rathburn, Clarence—”
Mr. Teeters bowed profoundly, and as he removed his hat his bang fell in his eyes, so that he looked like a performing Shetland pony.
“Much obliged to meet you, ladies,” deferentially. Then to Disston, darkly:
“I’ll take that from you onct, or twict, maybe,—but if you call me Clarence three times I’ll cut your heart out.”
Disston grinned understandingly.
Toomey was among those who went to the Prouty House to look at the “bunch of millionaires” waiting on the veranda, and his surprise equalled Teeters’ at seeing Disston.
“Say, Hughie—I got a deal on that’s a pippin—a pippin. There isn’t a flaw in it!” said Toomey confidentially.
“Glad to hear it, Jap,” Disston replied cordially, and presented him to Mrs. Rathburn and her daughter.
The mother was a small woman of much distinction of appearance. A well-poised manner, together with snow-white hair worn in a smooth moderate roll away from her face, and very black eyes that had a rather hard brilliancy, made her a person to be noticed. Having engineered her own life successfully, her sole interest now lay in engineering that of her daughter.
The last place Mrs. Rathburn would have selected to spend a summer was an isolated ranch in the sagebrush, but propinquity, she knew, had done wonders in friendships that had seemed hopelessly platonic, so, when Hugh urged them to join him, and endeavored to impart some of his own enthusiasm for the country, she assented.
In another way the daughter was not less noticeable than the mother, though more typically southern, with her soft drawl and appealing manner. Her skin had been so carefully protected since infancy that it was of a dazzling whiteness that might never have known the sunshine. Her feet were conspicuously small, her hands white, perfectly kept and helpless. Nature had given her the bronze hair that dyers strive for, and her brown eyes corresponded. She was as unlike the other alert self-sufficient young persons of the “millionaire bunch”—who were either dressed for utilitarian purposes only, or in finery of a past mode as could well be imagined.
Miss Rathburn had managed to remain immaculate, while their faces were smudged and streaked with soot and car dust, their hats awry and hair dishevelled. Cool, serene, with a filmy veil thrown back from her hat brim, she rocked idly, utterly unconscious of the eyes of the populace.
“The scenery is grand—Wagnerian! Out here one forgets one’s ego, doesn’t one?” the lady in the Alpine hat was saying when, leading the party like a bewhiskered gander, the gentleman from Canton, Ohio, dashed to the end of the veranda with his camera ready for action.
“What a picturesque character!” she cried ecstatically, following. “And see how beau-tee-fully she manages those horses!”
The cameras clicked as a young woman sitting very erect on the high spring seat of a wagon and looking straight ahead of her came past the hotel at a brisk trot, holding the reins over four spirited horses.
Disston straightened and asked quickly:
“Who’s that, Jap? It looks like—”
“Mormon Joe’s Kate,” Toomey finished. His tone had a sneer in it. “You were very good friends when you left, I remember.”
The eyes of both Mrs. Rathburn and her daughter showed surprise when Disston colored.
“That we are not now is her fault entirely,” he answered. “How is she?”
Toomey shrugged a shoulder.
“If you mean physically—I should say her health was perfect. No one ever sees her. She lives out in the hills alone with her sheep and a couple of herders.”
“How very extraordinary!” Miss Rathburn observed languidly.
“Plucky, I call it,” Disston answered.
“They’ve named her the 'Sheep Queen of Bitter Crick.'” Toomey laughed disagreeably.
“It’s curious you’ve never mentioned her, Hughie, when you’ve told us about everyone else in the country.”
“I didn’t think you’d be interested, Beth,” he answered stiffly.
Toomey changed the subject and the incident seemed forgotten, but Mrs. Rathburn’s eyes rested upon Hugh frequently with a look that was inquiring and speculative.
* * *
Kate’s heart always hardened and her backbone stiffened involuntarily the moment she had her first glimpse of Prouty. Invariably it had this effect upon her and to-day was no different from any other. Her eyes narrowed and her nerves tightened as though to meet the attack of an advancing enemy when at the edge of the bench, before she set the brake for the steep descent, she looked upon the town below her.
While her own feeling never altered and her attitude remained as implacable as the day she had sworn vengeance upon it, the bearing of the town had changed considerably. With cold inscrutable eyes she had watched open hostility and active enmity become indifference. Engrossed in its own troubles, Prouty had forgotten her, save when one of her rare visits reminded it of her existence. The comments upon such occasions were mostly of a humorous nature, pertaining to the “Sheep Queen,” a title which had been bestowed upon her in derision.
They heard exaggerated accounts of her losses through storms and coyotes, knew that she acted as camptender and herder when necessary, continued to live in a sheep wagon, and they presumed that she was still deeply in debt to the mysterious person or persons from whom she had obtained money at the time the bank threatened foreclosure.
She was seldom mentioned except in connection with the murder of Mormon Joe, a story with which the inhabitants occasionally entertained strangers. In other words, she was of no consequence socially or financially.
Looking neither to the right nor to the left as she swung her leaders around the corner, yet no sign of the town’s retrogression since her last visit escaped her—any more than did the mean small-town smirk upon the faces of a group of doorway loafers, who commented humorously upon the “Sheep Queen’s” arrival.
Yet there were tiny straws which showed that the wind was quartering. A few persons inclined their heads slightly in greeting, while the deference due a customer who paid cash was creeping into the manner of Scales of the Emporium. And there were others.
These small things she noted with satisfaction. It was the kind of coin she demanded in payment for isolation and hardships. She did not want their friendship; she wanted merely their recognition. To force from those who had gone out of their way to insult and belittle her the tacit admission of her success was a portion of the task she had set herself. Her purpose, and the means of attaining it were as clear in her mind as a piece of war strategy.
Kate gauged her position with intuitive exactness, and could quite impersonally see herself as Prouty saw her. She had no hallucinations on that score and knew that she was a long way yet from the fulfillment of her ambition. When she had reached a point where to decry her success was to proclaim her disparager envious or absurd, she would be satisfied; until then, she considered herself no more successful than the failures about her who yet found room to laugh at her.
Kate now shrugged a shoulder imperceptibly as she noted that another store building was empty. So the tailor had
flitted? She recalled the Western adage concerning towns with no Jews in them and smiled faintly. Two doors below, still another shop was vacant. “To Let” signs were not synonymous with prosperity. Hiram Butefish supported his back against the door jamb in an attitude which did not suggest any pressing business. Mrs. Sudds, who formerly had passed Kate with a face that was ostentatiously blank, now stared at her with a certain inquisitive amiability. Major Prouty sitting in front of the post office waved a hand at her that was comparatively friendly. Oh, yes—the wind was beginning to blow from a new direction, undoubtedly.
She stopped in front of the bank, where she kept an account only sufficiently large to pay her current expenses. She had set the brake and was wrapping the lines about them when a curious sound attracted her attention. Looking up she saw approaching the first automobile in Prouty, driven by Mrs. Abram Pantin. Beside her, elated and self-conscious, was Mrs. Jasper Toomey. Kate got down quickly to hold the heads of the leaders, who were snorting at the monster. The machine was of a type which gave the driver the appearance of taking a sitz bath in public. Mrs. Pantin when driving sat up so straight that she looked like a prairie dog. Mrs. Toomey unconsciously imitated her, so they looked like two prairie dogs out for an airing—a thought which occurred to Kate as she watched the approaching novelty.
The sheep woman had not met Mrs. Toomey since the day when the final blow had been given to her faith in human nature. Now while Kate’s face was masklike she felt a keen curiosity as to how Time was using the woman who had had so much to do with the molding of her character and future.
She saw Mrs. Toomey’s mental start when the latter recognized her, and the momentary hesitation before she drew back far enough not to be seen by Mrs. Pantin, and inclined her head slightly. It was the languid air of a great lady acknowledging the existence of the awed peasantry.
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